


through the curtains that our kisses have outworn

by velificatio



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Gentle Sex, M/M, Size Kink, Wet Clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:18:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3801625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velificatio/pseuds/velificatio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a lover who prefers a slow, softer hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	through the curtains that our kisses have outworn

Arthur finds him three months after the Fischer job.

His arrival in England is unexpected though not at all unwelcome. Walking a tightrope over the threat of limbo and pulling off inception puts Eames in the mind for a brief reprieve from dreamshare. He’s enjoying the financial bounty his success has raked in, that he’s now in an entirely new elite group of individuals, even though the team is careful not to let word of their achievement leak out.

 Its part business smarts and self-preservation. Mr. Saito obviously has a vast reach and none of them wish to try their luck against his resources if he decides he needs to be more thorough in covering his tracks.

Eames heads first to Naples. Spends one long, indulgent month with Bianca, a former Mafioso mistress turned art world star, then does a forgery commission in Barcelona. Flush with even more money, it’s with some reluctance that he flies into England. Per usual he only acknowledges his step-mother’s summons.

“Leonard will I ever have the pleasure of seeing you with someone on your arm?” Susanna sips her tea in a manner that reminds Eames of Saito. All the air of modern royalty. She doesn’t wait for him to answer. “What did you restore on your latest commission?”

 “A Bacon piece,” Eames has kept the charade of his “day job” up for so long the lie comes as easily as breathing. “Job had a certain nostalgia to it; reminded me of an old friend.”

They spent the day engaged in superficial conversation, reminiscing of earlier times when his father could be bothered to take time off business and see Susanna more than a day. Dull affairs Eames will need months away from England before he’ll feel charitable enough to endure them again.

Before he flies out, however, he decides to spend a few weeks in the English countryside. A sprawling, familiar retreat away from his family.

He’s not expecting to wake two days into his stay and find Arthur strolling up the stairway towards the manor’s entrance, a white Lexus parked in the driveway.

“You’re a difficult man to find Mr. Howard.” Arthur says by way of greeting, when Eames emerges at the door. “But not impossible.”

Eames doesn’t startle at the use of his true surname. By now he’s known Arthur longer than anyone still living in the illegal dreamshare trade, and intimately for that matter. While he’s not generally prone to long engagements, Eames is becoming quite used to Arthur defying so many of his rules, a unique and continuously intriguing exception in his life.

And he’s collected some very personal facts about Arthur as well. Eames knows he has far more aliases than himself, that only Mal was ever allowed to address him as Shiloh and that he’ll never fully scrub Georgia from his roots. Arthur might be an expert of recon but Eames is a master at gathering references and culling information as well.

(Of course, the latter fact is mostly due to a certain Bordeaux wine cellar incident involving too much _Château L'Angelus_ on Arthur’s part and the then gratuitous moans of the word “ _honey_ ” in an unmistakably Southern drawl as he rode Eames’ fingers which clued him in to Arthur’s origins.)

“Careful Arthur, I might think you missed me.” Eames flirts, giving Arthur an unnecessarily long once over. “You certainly came dressed to impress.”

Arthur’s in a pale cream three-piece, tailored to a pornographic extent as usual, with a burgundy tie. The colors pop, as they say, immediately draw ones eye to them and by extension Arthur.

“Yes Eames, I can’t stay away from a certain English asshole, the most elegant son of a bitch I know.”  The terse shake of Arthur’s head once again passes judgement on that particular choice Eames has made. “No matter what you say your humor is worse than mine.”

Eames shrugs, opening the door wide enough for Arthur to step inside. “I always thought that acronym suited me perfectly.” He motions for a couple of his valet’s to collect the suitcases he knows are in the trunk of Arthur’s car.

“You just like having private jokes with yourself.” Arthur says.

“Well yes, there is that.”

There are over twenty rooms in the manor but Eames takes Arthur up to the attic on their first night. Presses him down into the white sheets of the bed sequestered there, underneath a ceiling fan, a Förster upright piano set off to the left. He watches Arthur writhe, grip the linen drapes strewn haphazardly behind the bed, hanging from the beams of the ceiling.

In truth he could have Arthur in any number of the rooms of his countryside estate. Long since abandoned by his father, Eames’ mother employs a large staff to keep the grounds in good order but rarely frequents the place herself. Unofficially, the summer manor is a part of Eames’ long list of properties.

The attic however, is a spot of particular fondness for Eames. Once it was his hideaway from the demands and quarrels with his father; a spot he lost himself to periods of solitary thought and fits of drawing.

Now he wants to lose himself to Arthur there.

He does.

The following morning Eames wakes to the steady patter of rainfall tapping off the attic windows. Arthur’s asleep on his front, Eames curled atop his right side, arm slung over his waist. Another secret Eames counts himself one of the few in knowledge of; Arthur sleeps heavy.

Also he can at times be an insufferable prick if he wakes from a good romp and is deprived of nicotine. Although Arthur often quips about Eames’ indulgent spending, he can at least say between the two of them he’s not the one doling out forty dollars for a pack of Treasurer Cigarettes.

 Woe though he is to untangle himself from Arthur, Eames reluctantly gets off the bed, pulls on the grey sweats he’d opted for earlier and heads down to the kitchen to make them both a cup of tea.

Eames returns, cigarettes situated on a silver tray with their cups, to find Arthur awake. He’s sitting up on his knees, peeking at one of Eames’ drawing pads, and clad in the ivory Charvet dress shirt Eames had been wearing with his sweats.           

At the stairway Eames is locked in place, captivated.

As he studies the sketches with intent Arthur’s fingers comb through his hair as if he can wrestle the wayward curls back into some semblance of order with his hand alone. He runs that same hand down over where his cock is covered, pressing in slightly.

“Rather rude of you to wear my own clothing better than I do darling.” Eames says when he finally finds his voice.

Arthur’s head snaps up, cheeks pinking. Like Eames has caught him stealing biscuits. He has to laugh at the thought, fond beyond measure.

 “Rude of you to hide away all your decent clothes here.” Arthur’s expression is a definite pout.

“We’re still pretending you don’t fancy the way I dress then?” Eames sets their tray atop the piano, turning back towards Arthur with a grin.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “How did you know about my covert fantasies of binding you with your pocket watches?”

“Just something I wouldn’t put past you Arthur.”

“Mhm,” Arthur flips a page in the sketchbook, scratching at his inner thigh, “Actually my clothes are a mess on the floor since you were in too much of a hurry to let me fold them. And there’s a chill.”

“And that,” Eames says, stepping up to the bed. “Is utter bollocks. It’s summer. You wanted me to see you in my clothes, filthy minx.”

He receives a sly look at that, as much an acknowledgement as he’ll get. Arthur hands him his sketchbook, lets Eames pull him in by the waist once he’s placed it aside.

Although they’re roughly the same height there’s a stark contrast in their figures. It never fails to stir arousal in Eames, how large his hands look resting on Arthur’s slim hips, the way he seems to loom over him when he presses Arthur down into the mattress.

Seeing him as he is now, one side of the white Charvet sliding down his shoulder, a large portion of Arthur’s chest visible even with the bottom buttons in, only emphasizes how slight he is compared to Eames.

Eames’ fingertips trace gentle swirls from Arthur’s hip to his inner thigh, skimming over soft hair. A smile curves his lips as Arthur arches up against him, one hand cupping Eames’ chin, his mouth open in a soft gasp. This close Eames can see the fading imprints from where Arthur has been biting his lower lip, the flush reddening his pink mouth.

Christ, Eames loves him like this. That absence of shame in his need, how unaccountably tender he is with his body. Before, when he’d first met Arthur, Eames had expected him to fuck as hard, as fast as he does on point. Never in his wildest fantasies had he entertained the idea that Arthur would crave a softer touch, that he would take the greatest pleasure in drawing sex out, savoring each touch and taste. He’d not expected himself to be so drawn to that kind of sex, of lovemaking, with a man.

But Arthur has his hooks in him, Eames is a man addicted to being one of the few allowed to witness this side of Arthur in the most intimate setting. For Arthur is as careful in his approach to taking lovers as he is to running point.

“I want to draw you in my study.” Eames confesses. “And the bathing quarters, the gardens –“

Arthur cuts him off with a snort, teasing. “Everywhere? Eventually you’ll get tired of putting me on paper.”

“That’s doubtful. You are,” Eames squeezes Arthur’s arse, loving the feel of thin fabric on his soft skin. “Quite an engaging subject. Why not take advantage of all the potential for new imagery?”

Arthur’s thumb runs along Eames’ mouth. “Well in the spirit of that how about I give you some fresh, engaging imagery?”

There’s a wicked quirk to Arthur’s lips as he pulls away, hoping off the bed and moving towards the windows. The Charvet rides up over the swell of his arse when he leans up to part the windows open. It gets Eames’ blood running faster.

“You’ll like this.” Arthur says, reaching one arm outside, watching rainfall darken the shirt sleeve. Then he’s turning, his eyes giving Eames a silent command to “ _pay close attention, Mr. Eames._ ” As if Eames needed an order to keep from taking his eyes off him.

Arthur sits on the window ledge, facing Eames, and leans back, out so the steady stream of rainfall begins to soak his face. Wet patches bloom on Eames’ Charvet and Arthur’s neck is a long sinuous line as he tilts his head further, lips parted, eyes closed almost in bliss.

Eames cannot take his eyes off him, frantically chasing every detail of the erotic picture Arthur makes. Clear droplets cling to his mouth, roll over his collarbone down the exposed portion of his chest in gorgeous trails. Eames’ dress shirt has gone from crisp white to a drenched crumble of translucent fabric. He can see the rosy buds of Arthur’s peaked nipples where the cloth now clings to his flesh, from his shoulder to bunch up at his hips. The patch of black curls at his groin is visible through the shirt.

It is precisely the striking sort of image Eames knows he’ll hold close enough in his mind to be able to catalogue in his sketchpad hours, even days after this.  So as strong as the desire to reach for his pad and charcoal is, he resists the urge. Instead he watches in rapt attention, Arthur is a marvel here, fine as any marble sculpture. Eames’ cock is swelling rapidly back to life in his sweats but he pays it little notice.

 His feet are carrying him closer to Arthur before he realizes he’s moved. Pulled helpless into that orbit. Wrapping an arm around Arthur’s waist, Eames shivers at the sensation of slick fabric and skin more than the chill rain has given Arthur.

“You’ll catch cold.” He murmurs, in a low whisper as he draws Arthur in for a kiss. While he does Eames begins to pull them back from the window. Arthur chases his mouth, peppering him with quick little kisses, his arms weaving around Eames shoulders. The plush flesh of Eames’ bottom lip is sucked into Arthur’s mouth and long fingers pet at his bread, stroking through his hair. Soft, small noises come from the back of Arthur’s throat as they lick into one another, caress their lips together.

Eames will never tire of kissing him, how fully Arthur embraces the intimacy of the action. Even now he is rubbing his body against Eames’, his hands running near reverent over every inch of Eames they can reach.  And Eames is in a state of worship himself, combing through the wet dishevelment of Arthur’s hair, grabbing his arse. He slips his hand under the Charvet, a finger sliding into Arthur’s cleft, pressing lightly on his hole. Arthur moans, mouth open, nodding his enthusiasm as Eames moves his fingers in slow circles around that puckered rim.

“That’s it darling.” Eames says, the backs of his knees finally meeting his mattress. “So good for me.”

Eames sits down with Arthur straddling his hips, head falling back for Eames to lick traces of rainfall off his neck. Arousal stirs further in Eames at the hint of beard burn their kissing is already marking Arthur’s mouth and cheeks with.

Later Arthur will trace his fingers over those spots of skin, his gaze slightly out of focus, no doubt reliving this moment in his mind.

Right now though Arthur is a torrent, all searing passion as he rolls his hips in slow, fluid motions, grinding their erections together. His nails put gentle pressure on Eames’ shoulders, just enough to make him shudder.

 _I’m going to draw you like this_ , Eames thinks, running his hands through Arthur’s hair; _exactly as you are now_. _Loose-limbed with pleasure, devoted to sensation_. Fingertips dance along Eames’ beard, trace his lips in between kisses. They knead at his biceps, rake through his chest hair.

Arthur feels so good, even the cooling slick of rainwater only draws Eames in further. When his tongue flicks over Eames’ upper lip, nose fitting into the hollow of his cheek, Eames gladly surrenders his mouth, his air to him. He can feel Arthur’s smile, his fingers smoothing over Eames’ brow then coaxing him to shut his eyes. Indulgent kisses are doted on each eyelid and Eames arches up into Arthur, reaching down to palm his arse.

“Want to taste you.” Arthur says, lips moving along Eames’ beard. A tad reluctantly, Eames lets him go, spreading his legs apart so Arthur can settle between them at the foot of the bed.

Arthur tugs at Eames’ sweats, not enough to release his cock, just far enough for Eames’ pubic hair to be bared. He kisses that thatch of brown curls, so sweet, his tongue licking up to Eames’ navel where another open-mouthed kiss is placed.

 Eames’ stomach clenches, he can’t help but run a hand through Arthur’s hair, barely able to keep from tightening his grip when Arthur goes back to licking at his curls. His breath puffs hot on Eames’ skin and after each flick of his tongue he lets his kisses fall further down Eames’ body.

“ _Darling_ ,” Eames gasps, definitely not above begging. Not with Arthur’s lips pressed right at the base of his cock. “Please.”

Arthur laughs, soft, wets his lips and at last pulls Eames’ trousers down far enough for his prick to spring forth, hard and weeping precome at the tip. “Mm.” He hums, licking up Eames’ base to where the slit of his cockhead peeks out from underneath his foreskin.

Eames tosses head back, his groan deep as Arthur’s tongue flicks over that sensitive opening. He runs it over the vein along the underside of Eames’ cock, lets his lips brush over the length of Eames’ prick, inhaling his scent in deep.

Arthur treats Eames’ cock like a work of art. Far from ridiculous it’s one of the hottest things Eames has ever seen, ever felt. Precome is running out the head of his cock as Arthur’s hand begins to stroke him. Languid, like he could spend the entire day making Eames fall apart this way. He suckles on those droplets of pre-spending, on Eames’ foreskin, catching his gaze when he draws his head back a bit, stretching the skin with it.

Swearing, Eames’ nails scrape the back of Arthur’s neck. He feels drugged, hazy. Arthur’s not even aiming to tease. He’s simply savoring this act, no need to rush when he has Eames right where he wants him.

Arthur sucks one of his balls into his mouth, pulls his foreskin right under his crown, rubbing his thumb back and forth over that flesh. When he lets the sac go it’s with an obscene popping noise that pulls a groan from Eames.

“Arthur,” He breathes out, shuddering as Arthur takes him into his mouth. “ _Yes_ , fuck…”

Arthur isn’t quiet about sucking him off. Little hums and moans vibrate around Eames’ cock, his gasps are wet when he draws back for air, tongue swiping at his lips. They’re glistening with spit and Eames’ precome, utter filth.

 It’s right on the edge of being too much for Eames already. He has to lean back on his elbows, unable to stay upright when Arthur suckles on just the head of his cock, tongue swirling over his slit to coax more precome out, his hand pulling Eames’ foreskin up and down in slow strokes.

Eames moves his hand from Arthur’s neck to his shoulder, halting him. “Much as I’d fancy having you do this for hours, this’ll be over quickly if you keep that up.”

Arthur pulls away with a smirk, unrepentant. “As if I couldn’t get you hard again if I wanted.”

“That is moot point.”

“Bullshit.” Arthur says, rising up to cover Eames, kissing him.  He tastes more of himself than Arthur this time but that only ratchets up his arousal.

Eames’ hands skim over the creases and wrinkles of his Charvet and a moan slips from his mouth just at the feel of that fabric clinging to Arthur’s skin as he grips his arse hard. Arthur’s breathing quickens against Eames’ neck before he even begins to tease at his rim with two fingers. He’s had large hands since his teenage growth spurt and his ring and forefinger seem so thick pressing on that little pucker, just enough to make Arthur feel the sting when their tips push inside.

But Eames knows he can take them, and so much more. He hears the hitch of breath, feels Arthur clench for a moment, then draws a soft whine from him as delves deeper, up to the second knuckles.

Eames curls his fingers upward when he thrusts, petting Arthur’s most intimate area. And Arthur unfolds beautifully with it, grasping at Eames’ arms, shoulders trembling. He’s huffing out quiet moans into Eames’ neck, rocking his hips back on the fingers inside him. The Charvet has ridden up his stomach and his cock paints hot smudges of precome on Eames’ already damp skin. When Eames finds his prostate it’s with a slow, insistent grind of his fingertips against that gland that he turns Arthur’s moans into sobs.

“Eames, _ohfuck_ Eames,” Arthur sucks bruises along the line of his neck, whimpering, shaking apart atop Eames. Inside he feels so hot and tight, spasms pulsing in waves around Eames’ fingers. “More.”

“Yeah, I’ll give you more darling,” Eames pants, rubbing himself up against Arthur. “I’ll make you feel good.”

The wet friction of their bodies together feels amazing on Eames’ prick, a hint of cold fabric tickling over his foreskin, glancing off the slit on his cockhead. He groans, presses more firmly on Arthur’s prostate, keeps that rubbing motion up at a steady pace.

Arthur’s doing half the work, rolling his hips in tight circles, trying to make the pressure constant. One of his hands scratches through Eames’s beard, thumb stroking over his bottom lip and Eames sucks it into his mouth with a low moan.

“Oh, _oh_ ,” Arthur’s clenching on Eames’ fingers with each grind on his sweet spot, his entire body starting to quiver. “Eames…close.”

Eames groans, letting Arthur’s thumb slip from his mouth. “You’re not…leaving this house today, darling. Going to h-have you in every room. Make you come until you can’t stand it, oh god…”

Just thinking of his plans has Eames on edge. Arthur’s responds with a series of high, near pleading whimpers; nodding enthusiastically, past the point of words. He’s so close, Eames could easily bring him off like this then work him right back up again but he doesn’t want Arthur to come this way. He wants him trembling on his cock, stuffed full of Eames and desperate for more.

Eames rolls until he’s on top of Arthur, pulls his fingers out but takes a few moments to circle the softened ring of his pucker, enjoying how Arthur’s breath catches.

Arthur’s gaze is half-lidded, pleasure drunk. He grips the back of Eames’ hair and drags him into a long, scorching kiss. Just as Eames delights in Arthur’s wiry, slighter frame, Arthur loves to be surrounded by his bulk. Held in, covered by him. The press of Eames’ body on his has Arthur losing himself further, moaning while he licks into Eames’ mouth. When he leans back it draws a whine of protest from Arthur. He chuckles, sliding the shirt collar aside to kiss a bruise left on Arthur’s collarbone.

“You’ll enjoy this love.” Eames says. “Lie on your side for me.”

A darkened, damp spot shows in the sheets when Eames moves for Arthur to reposition himself. He touches it, inexplicably aroused at the feel. Like Arthur’s left a physical imprint of himself there. Eames’ blood runs even hotter when turns his attention back to the man himself.

Because Arthur has pushed two of his own fingers inside himself, is gently pumping them while his other hand plays with his cock, bottom lip sucked between his teeth. It’s an image that has Eames’ prick throbbing, his balls drawing up tight. Almost enough to make him come on the spot.

“What you do to me.” He mutters, crawling around behind Arthur. Eames settles flush against his back, Arthur bending one leg up over his hip.

Slender fingers take Eames’ cock in hand, giving it a couple squeezing strokes, then pressing the head to Arthur’s rim. Eames stops him from putting it inside, sly as he grips his prick and rubs the leaking head of his cock over Arthur’s hole. Arthur’s breath hitches again, the sound leaving his lips sounds wounded.

“Want me in there?” Eames asks, putting more pressure on Arthur’s pucker. Just enough for his slit to rub over the slight opening when Arthur’s hole flexes, wetting him with precome.

Arthur moans, pushing back against him. “Yes, Eames you know I do. Stop being a bastard.”

Eames can’t hold in his laugh, nipping at Arthur’s shoulder. “Say it.”

He gets his free hand into the tease, reaching around to roll Arthur’s nipples between his thumb. Arthur shudders, biting his lip to quell the whine Eames still hears rising in his throat. When he finally speaks it’s with a breathy, sex laced tone that makes Eames’ cock twitch.

“Put it in me Eames.”

Eames practically purrs, “Specificity love.”

“Oh fuck off.” Arthur swats at his head, the seduction gone from his voice. “Give me your cock, fuck me.”

Eames is an absolute bastard, because he pushes inside at exactly the right moment to make Arthur draw out that “ _me_ ” before breaking off with a gasp. His cock isn’t exceptionally long, but he’s thick and Arthur tightens around him at first, panting as he tries to adjust. Eames stops at once, just a bit more than his cockhead inside Arthur, and works to unwind him.

He presses his face alongside Arthur’s, licking the shell of his ear, one hand carding through his hair. Arthur shudders when Eames strokes over his neck, up underneath the Charvet to flick his nipples. The little tension he’s held at Eames’ sudden penetration eases loose like water. Moaning, he pushes his hips back, pulling Eames the rest of the way inside him.

Eames’ thrusts are agonizingly slow, Arthur meeting him halfway with smooth rocks of his hips. It’s a challenge to override the instinctive urge to fuck in hard, fast. Eames knows Arthur can take that, get off from it. But he prefers tenderness, a slow assault on his senses and Eames wants to make him unravel that way.

So he pumps forward gently, puts his mouth back on Arthur’s ear, his tongue swirling over its tip. Arthur makes a little hiccupped moan, lashes fluttering and Eames lets one hand slip back underneath the Charvet to graze his balls, the other cupping Arthur’s neck. His mouth plants wet kisses along Arthur’s ear over to his cheek, Eames panting against him.

Arthur tightens around his cock deliberately, clenching each time his prick drags out. Its maddening, incredible. Eames tells Arthur as much, tells him every praise and filthy thought that crosses his mind.

“Want to come all over you darling, _fuck_ , fill you up with me. You feel so damn good.” He swears, clutching at Arthur’s covered nipples, pinching them, right as he brushes over that spot inside Arthur that makes his eyes shut, pulls a pornographic moan from his lips.

Fingers comb through his hair, keeping Eames in place when Arthur turns his head so they can kiss. Less finesse now, more the slick bump of their lips pushing together, the air shared between them hot, consuming. Eames fucks into Arthur deeper then, feels him groan against his mouth. The clench of his passage around Eames is unconscious now, driven by the grind of Eames’ cock over his prostrate.

“Eames there.” Arthur pants, rubbing at Eames’ arms. “Right there. Keep going.”

All Eames can respond with is, “Yeah, yeah.” His voice a thick rasp over Arthur’s mouth.

In moments like these he feels unfamiliar surges of possessiveness, greedy desires to hoard Arthur in this house, in his bed and make him fall apart touch by touch for days, months even. He is lovely; the long arch of his neck as his head drops back and how his body writhes, driven to have more, to be overcome. When Eames takes his cock in hand Arthur shudders; when he begins to stroke in time with his thrusts he earns another sob.

His pace hasn’t risen by much; Eames is still fucking in long drawn out thrusts. But the pressure on Arthur’s nerves and his hand pumping his cock has him on edge.

Eames’ thumb runs under the weeping head of Arthur’s cock. Eames knows precisely what to say to push him over. “Come on darling, come for me.”

“ _Eames_!” Arthur keens, mouth open wide, brow furrowed as his body begins to tighten. He lets out breathy moans, rocking his hips back into Eames hard. Eames can feel how the motion grinds his prick inside Arthur, milks further spurts of come from his cock. The warm splashes over his palm as sweet as the clenching of Arthur’s passage around him. And there is another sight Eames only wants to see more of. Arthur overwhelmed, trembling as his orgasm hits, all the strings of tension torn apart, his face the picture of ecstasy.

Tightening his hold on Arthur’s hair Eames reaches for one of his nipples and twists, harder than usual but it’s just the level of pain rolling into pleasure that Arthur enjoys. Makes him throw his head back and gasp at the ceiling. Eames doesn’t take his eyes off him, all of his focus on watching Arthur ride out his climax. Nails dig into Eames’ forearm, sure to leave little crescent marks in their wake.

“Beautiful.” Eames says, unabashed in his praise. “So lovely Arthur.”

He keeps thrusting until Arthur’s aftershocks begin to quell, quiet hums coming from him. Eames draws out with eagerness, desperate to come. He lets Arthur lie on his back, settles between the wide spread of his legs and fists his cock roughly.

Arthur is still writhing beneath him, gaze hooded while he touches at his stretched hole. His other hand smooths over Eames’ arms and chest, rubbing his nipples, scratching through the thick hair on his pecks. Eames presses a thumb to his mouth, watches him suck it in with a whimper, eyes falling shut. Those soft, once pink lips are swollen and red around his thumb.

Vision fuzzing at the edges Eames fucks into Arthur’s mouth, tugs on his cock in broad strokes, his grunts right on the edge of growls.

“Arthur,” Eames chants, like a declaration, an oath. “Arthur, fuck, _Arthur_.”

 Arthur suckles hard enough for his cheeks to hollow and Eames loses it, coming onto his soaked Charvet and Arthur’s slick skin in thick pulses. “Fuck!” He shouts, jerking his prick harder. “Fuck!”

Eames fists his cock until it aches, falls forward onto his elbows over Arthur who reaches for his prick, pulls at it until Eames brushes his hand away, far too sensitive.

“Your shirt,” Arthur sighs, stretching out underneath him. “Is ruined.”

Eames leans up for a kiss, nips at Arthur’s mouth.

“Never fancied it before today anyway.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Leonard Cohen's "Dance Me to the End of Love."
> 
> And yes, here the name Eames is an acronym of the phrase English Arsehole, Most Elegant Son of a bitch.


End file.
